will be a rich man, and then can trade with my father and I will be his wife!”
“Oh,” I said, feeling unaccountably sorry for myself. “That’s wonderful.”
She looked at me quizzically. “What’s wrong, Boston Jane? You like Keer-ukso, yes?”
I looked down, shamefaced. Who was I to ruin her happiness?
“Boston Jane,” she said, laying a gentle hand on my arm.
“It’s not that,” I said, swallowing hard. “It’s Jehu.”
“Jehu?”
I looked out the kitchen window. “I want to marry him.”
“But your father is dead. He doesn’t need money to trade with your father. You can get married tomorrow if you want. You are lucky!”
“That’s not it,” I said. “It’s not the Boston custom for the manto trade with a father to get a wife. If anything, it’s the opposite. The woman brings a dowry and—” I stopped myself, shaking my head. “That’s not it at all.”
“What is it, then?”
“Jehu hasn’t asked me to marry him.”
Spaark looked perplexed. “Then why don’t you ask him to marry you?”
I shook my head. “That just isn’t how it’s done.”
She nodded as if considering this problem. Then her eyes brightened. “Maybe you can still do it the Chinook way. It does not have to be your father, it can be someone who is like a father. Like Mr. Swan! You have Jehu pay Mr. Swan!”
“He’d just gamble it away!”
Spaark giggled. “Or spend it on Red Charley’s whiskey!”
We both laughed.
“I see your problem,” she said finally. “You must trust your friends. And your friends tell you not to worry. Jehu will marry you, Boston Jane.”
As I looked into her kind eyes, I couldn’t help thinking:
But I still want him to
ask
me!
In the end, I used the molasses Jehu had given me to make pies.
As usual we were to have a full house for supper. The evening’s menu included oyster soup, oyster tarts, fried oysters, and mashed potatoes, as well as my molasses pies cooling on the windowsill.
Oysters were a delicacy most places, but here on the bay they were a staple. We served them many different ways to keep theminteresting—stewed, fried, broiled, fricasseed, deviled, curried, steamed, au gratin, pickled, as fritters, in pies, in omelets, in tarts, in soup, and sometimes as a sauce. But by far the most popular method of eating oysters was raw in whiskey, although Mrs. Frink made the men go to the taverns for that.
I personally hated oysters. They resembled fat slugs.
Even though the Frink Hotel catered to all manner of men, I worried that the sight of Hairy Bill would ruin the appetites of more than one of our guests. Not to mention, he wasn’t supposed to be on the bay to begin with. So I made a point of delivering a tray to Hairy Bill’s room before supper.
“Don’t worry, Miss Jane,” Hairy Bill said, as he happily dug into the food. “I got everything I want right here. Don’t see no reason to leave.”
That was, of course, what I was starting to fear.
William, I knew, would be attending supper, and despite my good intentions to the contrary, I took great pains with my appearance, selecting my best dress—a dress made of lovely gold silk that I had sewn myself from a pattern I recalled seeing in Philadelphia. It set off my red hair and suited me perfectly. What was it about him that made me want to prove myself again and again? After all this time, why did I care about his opinion?
Once downstairs, I left Mrs. Frink to greet the arriving guests and poked my head into the kitchen to check on the meal. As usual everything was running smoothly thanks to Spaark and Millie.
“Where’s Willard?” I asked, glancing around the kitchen. Willard was supposed to help Millie with the serving and clearing.
Spaark rolled her eyes.
“Haven’t seen him since this morning,” Millie admitted. “He disappeared after I told him to scrub out the milk urn.”
“That boy is useless.” I slipped on my apron and grabbed a tray of biscuits. “Well, it appears
“Oh,” I said, feeling unaccountably sorry for myself. “That’s wonderful.”
She looked at me quizzically. “What’s wrong, Boston Jane? You like Keer-ukso, yes?”
I looked down, shamefaced. Who was I to ruin her happiness?
“Boston Jane,” she said, laying a gentle hand on my arm.
“It’s not that,” I said, swallowing hard. “It’s Jehu.”
“Jehu?”
I looked out the kitchen window. “I want to marry him.”
“But your father is dead. He doesn’t need money to trade with your father. You can get married tomorrow if you want. You are lucky!”
“That’s not it,” I said. “It’s not the Boston custom for the manto trade with a father to get a wife. If anything, it’s the opposite. The woman brings a dowry and—” I stopped myself, shaking my head. “That’s not it at all.”
“What is it, then?”
“Jehu hasn’t asked me to marry him.”
Spaark looked perplexed. “Then why don’t you ask him to marry you?”
I shook my head. “That just isn’t how it’s done.”
She nodded as if considering this problem. Then her eyes brightened. “Maybe you can still do it the Chinook way. It does not have to be your father, it can be someone who is like a father. Like Mr. Swan! You have Jehu pay Mr. Swan!”
“He’d just gamble it away!”
Spaark giggled. “Or spend it on Red Charley’s whiskey!”
We both laughed.
“I see your problem,” she said finally. “You must trust your friends. And your friends tell you not to worry. Jehu will marry you, Boston Jane.”
As I looked into her kind eyes, I couldn’t help thinking:
But I still want him to
ask
me!
In the end, I used the molasses Jehu had given me to make pies.
As usual we were to have a full house for supper. The evening’s menu included oyster soup, oyster tarts, fried oysters, and mashed potatoes, as well as my molasses pies cooling on the windowsill.
Oysters were a delicacy most places, but here on the bay they were a staple. We served them many different ways to keep theminteresting—stewed, fried, broiled, fricasseed, deviled, curried, steamed, au gratin, pickled, as fritters, in pies, in omelets, in tarts, in soup, and sometimes as a sauce. But by far the most popular method of eating oysters was raw in whiskey, although Mrs. Frink made the men go to the taverns for that.
I personally hated oysters. They resembled fat slugs.
Even though the Frink Hotel catered to all manner of men, I worried that the sight of Hairy Bill would ruin the appetites of more than one of our guests. Not to mention, he wasn’t supposed to be on the bay to begin with. So I made a point of delivering a tray to Hairy Bill’s room before supper.
“Don’t worry, Miss Jane,” Hairy Bill said, as he happily dug into the food. “I got everything I want right here. Don’t see no reason to leave.”
That was, of course, what I was starting to fear.
William, I knew, would be attending supper, and despite my good intentions to the contrary, I took great pains with my appearance, selecting my best dress—a dress made of lovely gold silk that I had sewn myself from a pattern I recalled seeing in Philadelphia. It set off my red hair and suited me perfectly. What was it about him that made me want to prove myself again and again? After all this time, why did I care about his opinion?
Once downstairs, I left Mrs. Frink to greet the arriving guests and poked my head into the kitchen to check on the meal. As usual everything was running smoothly thanks to Spaark and Millie.
“Where’s Willard?” I asked, glancing around the kitchen. Willard was supposed to help Millie with the serving and clearing.
Spaark rolled her eyes.
“Haven’t seen him since this morning,” Millie admitted. “He disappeared after I told him to scrub out the milk urn.”
“That boy is useless.” I slipped on my apron and grabbed a tray of biscuits. “Well, it appears
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